The Twelfth Night :: A Faerie Tale
by I Got Tired of Waiting
Summary: COMPLETE : SLASH : He lives in solitude, stripped of the life he once knew, until one Christmas a new life comes to him, changing him forever.
1. Chapter 1

The Red Reign Challenge: This Christmastime  
**The Twelfth Night : A Faerie Tale**  
by I Got Tired of Waiting

**December 24th : The Eve**

It had been too long since he'd last been to market, but with the approaching holidays and his lean larder, he'd had little choice in the matter unless he wanted to starve. Which, given his current situation, sometimes tempted him more than it probably ought.

Walking up and down the aisles held many reminders of pain, and not just the one in his left hip which, with this bitter season, was stiffer than the ice blanketing the roof of MacGruger's shop. With their labels jauntily vying for attention, jars of Madam Manson's Magical Morels stood side-by-side with Tina Tiani's Tomatillos and Willie's Wizarding Watercress. Even though he would never consider buying any of it, he still looked longingly at the gaudy jars and tins of foodstuffs that were out of his reach, and of more than just his pocketbook, for he no longer had the means to open their magically-sealed contents.

So he looked between and around the magical fare to seek instead their dowdier Muggle relatives. His tastes thwarted by his purse, his hands wandered over the shelves in a most desultory manner and soon tins of lentil soup and marrowfat peas were joined by a quart of milk, a box of dumpling mix, six eggs, three half-wilted carrots, an onion, a loaf of day-old bread, and a single bar of soap. As he listlessly debated whether he should splurge on some biscuits, his hand ghosted over the dearer things; no, he could not afford shredded chicken or beef and... well, MacGruger didn't offer credit to almost-squib, former Death Eaters, not even at Christmas, and biscuits were not worth beg--

A yell and a crash preceded a tawny smear streaking across a floor suddenly wet and reeking of herring. A cat, just a cat, he thought as his hands swept three flattish tins into his winter cloak and then, since the clerks were still futiley chasing the thief, a fourth. Settling them deeper into his inner pockets with a shrug, he paused only to add a small tin of biscuits to the basket looped over his arm before boldly walking to the register. The purloined tins weighed heavy against his chest as he patiently waited in queue, silently watching as MacGruger smoothly alternated between berating his hapless lad mopping the floor and adding a bit of shine to the spot he'd been kissing on Mrs McBane's lush arse.

Well, _his_ skinny bum was buss-free by the time the old man tallied his purchases with much sniffing and hateful side-glances. Too late he opened his mouth to protest when MacGruger roughly grabbed his basket, haphazardly dumping his purchases within while beady brown eyes begged him to complain. He sighed; at least the eggs and milk seemed safe. He pocketed the change (three Knuts short, as usual) and tucked the basket securely in his arms; black brows drawn over glaring black eyes eloquently expressed what he dared not utter. The door slamming shut behind him, he stopped long enough to rescue his squashed bread from under the tins before setting off for home. His other booty still safe in his pockets, he smiled with grim irony, silently thanking the unlucky cat who'd been caught stealing its supper. His mind wandering to thoughts of another cat from his previous life, he quickened his pace, the almost-mirth sliding from his long, thin face.

On the long walk home, the crunching snow underfoot making him wish he'd worn another pair of socks, he supposed he should be ashamed of his theft, but survival was something with which he'd become all too familiar in the last two years. Besides, it was nothing more than getting his own back for all the times MacGruger had cheated and belittled him because the old curmudgeon knew he wouldn't retaliate.

Couldn't, more than like, given his sentencing, athough he'd been told many times he should be thankful for what he had. He snorted, thinking how requisite gratitude chafed worse than sackcloth when one was bound to a place where one was not welcome, yet refused a peaceful parole even with good behaviour. Considering how little they'd left him and how small their remaining regard, he'd decided long ago that living with the Muggles would be preferable, not that they would let him.

His long legs making short work the distance, he studied the buildings he passed, hoping to detour his thoughts from the morose direction they always wandered. Eventually, he reached a small tidy cottage at the end of a lane as far from the center of the village as could be without falling off the earth. Beyond his back garden resided dragons and demons, or so he'd been told by those who found their amusement at his expense. He wouldn't know; he couldn't step past the fence marking the end of the tiny property alloted him by the Wizengamot, although he suspected there were more demons than dragons if his dreams were any indication.

Fat snowflakes dotted his dark, lank hair as he inserted a brass key into the front door lock. Although his burden had seemed light at the onset, by the end it weighed as heavy as a four-stone cauldron and just as cumbersome as he struggled to release the latch. Once inside, he slammed the door shut against the rising wind and limped into the cold kitchen. After dropping his basket on a wooden table, he leaned against the room's solitary chair to catch his breath and, soon after, wearily hung his cloak on a hook by the door. Rummaging in its pockets, he pulled forth his stolen prizes. Strangely satisfied, he added them to the rest of his groceries, thinking as he put them away that, with some planning, he could make these unexpected treasures stretch for weeks. Closing the last cabinet, he blew warm air into his icy hands and set about making his supper, wondering whether he should have beef or fish in his stew.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

The Red Reign Challenge: This Christmastime  
**The Twelfth Night : A Faerie Tale**  
by I Got Tired of Waiting

**December 25 : Happy Christmas**

He awoke snug beneath an ancient duvet they'd let him take from his quarters at Hogwarts before the court's Aurors had escorted him, at his trial's end, to this three room cottage. There'd not been much they'd let him take, most of it non-magical, but with the four people who could have defended him--Albus, Minerva, Remus, and Harry--all gone, and no real magic remaining within him, he'd not been in a position to argue.

His desire to stay abed warring with a full bladder, he stumbled from his warm haven to the freezing bathroom and hurriedly did his business while shifting from foot to foot to keep warm. Afterwards, he quickly dressed before checking the weather outside through the room's small window, deciding to start the kettle before going out to collect the day's wood; hot tea would be welcome after the cold outside.

Exiting his small bedroom, he stopped mid-stride across the sitting room and stared at a small, bare evergreen tucked in a corner of the room opposite the sideboard and the door to the kitchen. Cautiously he approached it; he could almost smell the magic emanating from it as strongly as its pine-ness. The feel familiar, he suddenly had a vision of white hair and merry blue eyes. Backing away from it, he blindly fled outside, taking huge breaths against a pain he'd thought long buried.

Without a cloak, the cold quickly seeped into his heavy robes, bringing with it a measure of sense and self-derision as to his startled reaction to what was only a harmless, if a bit odd, tree suddenly appearing in his cottage. After all, stranger things had happened to him in the past and he'd not been harmed. Calmer now, and certain the feeling he'd got from the tree was only his imagination, he briskly walked into the small garden with its ever-full wood pile, spelled to always stay stocked. Oh, never enough for a luxurious fire, but enough to keep the pipes from bursting. Far be it for them to allow him to freeze to death--starve maybe, but he would never lack for a marginal environment.

As he reached for the last log the pile would allow him, it hissed. Pulling his hand back, he studied the stack through narrowed eyes until he spotted two bright lights peeking through a chink made by several irregular logs. Sinking to his haunches, he peered closer, eyeing what he thought was a Scottish wild cat wedged in the void; he would have crushed it had he pulled the log he'd been after.

Strangely unafraid, although he should have been given their well-earned reputation as a 'bite-first-then-scratch-your-eyes-out' sort of feline, he mumbled an apology before calmly taking a different log further down the rack. His pace unhurried, he made his way into the cottage, his arms full.

That evening, after eating a light supper, he made one last trip for firewood, almost disappointed that the cat was nowhere to be seen. As he toed open the mostly-closed back door to go inside, a tawny blur darted out of the shadows and ran between his legs, knocking him over as it dashed into the house. Logs everywhere, he struggled to his feet, while debating his best course of action. Warmth won over a feline eviction, for he was certain it had been a cat, so he collected the logs in his arms once again, piling them up past his nose, before depositing them in the sitting room bin. Dusting his hands on his robes, he resolutely turned to seek his intruder...

...and pulled up short when he saw that the tree was now decorated. Inching closer, he noted there were red apples tied to its branches. Feeling no danger, he plucked one, its pungent ripeness making him think of Autumn and burning leaves. With no magic in it that he could sense, he took a small bite and groaned, the taste being the freshest he'd encountered since his arrest.

The apple's bulk filled him as he'd not been for ages, but he was not lost to its sweetness. Even as he savoured each bite, he carefully watched his quarry cautiously inch its way out from under the tree until it sat primly at its edge, seemingly calm, but the tautness of its powerful hindquarters spoke of instant running and hiding. The minutes ticked by as human and cat eyed each other warily, its golden eyes fierce and unwavering. An odd-looking creature, its face looked like something, or someone, had bisected it diagonally across its nose and slid the two halves slightly along the scarred seam, which left it with a near-perfect face except that it was out-of-kilter. A beautiful animal otherwise, if one were inclined to dwell on such things, its black stripes bold against the thick tawny fur, yet deadly if the claws peeping out between the rather dainty toes on the huge paws were any indication. The tail wrapped around its back paws was magnificent, thick and ringed with a black blotch at the end. A powerful cat, almost as large as a spaniel, adapted to live in the wild Scottish highlands, but what was it doing in his house?

The wind hurling snow against his window, he came to a sudden decision. Tossing the apple core into the fireplace, he strode into the kitchen, surprised when the cat followed him to just outside the room's opening. He fetched a small porcelain bowl and filled it with water, placing it by the stove. "I'll give you clean water and a warm fire by which to sleep, at least until this blizzard passes," he rasped. "You'll have to fend for your own supper as I've none to spare." The cat blinked.

With a large, shallow metal pan in hand, he grabbed some old Prophets and marched past the bemused creature to the bathroom. After a few moments, he returned, sans pan and papers, leaving the door to the room open behind him. "I can't think of a better use for those old rags. They come whether I want them or not. I've made you a litter box in the bathroom." He frowned. "See that you use it." The cat slunk back under the tree, his tail held low.

Shaking his head, he gathered some wood from the bin and stepped into the bedroom. Poking his head out the door, he growled, "And if you even _think_ about using your claws on anything..." He let the threat hang before closing the door to his bedroom firmly, wondering if cats could chuckle.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

The Red Reign Challenge: This Christmastime  
**The Twelfth Night : A Faerie Tale**  
by I Got Tired of Waiting

**December 26 : Boxing Day**

The cat was nowhere to be found the next morning, but judging from the stench in the bathroom and the torn papers, the beast had obviously used the pan sometime during the night. A trip to the garden later, he sipped his tea at the table, noting the water bowl was empty as well.

He peeked under the tree, expecting to see it sleeping there and instead found a small leather bag with a red bow. Hefting its weight in his hand, he reckoned it to be coins. Taking it to the kitchen table, he opened the bag and upended its contents, holding his breath as a stream of gold poured onto the worn wooden surface. Counting them, he realised there was more gold Galleons in the bag than he'd made in the last two years with the odd, menial jobs he'd scrounged around the village. Running the heavy coins through his fingers, he snorted, thinking he was less than Filch now; at least Dumbledore had given the caretaker his dignity and his freedom.

After filling the cat's water bowl, he hunted for a place to hide his bounty, finally deciding that leaving the bag in full view on the counter would probably serve just as well as any secret place and would certainly be more convenient. No one ever came to the cottage, and only he, or the Aurors, could enter it, so why should he worry about someone stealing anything? Shrugging, he made himself a simple breakfast and, after cleaning up, he retired to the sitting room to read, the cat still in hiding.

Later that night, after returning to the sitting room with the night's firewood, he was startled to see that, in his short absence for dinner, the tree had sprouted dozens of new ornaments, fantastical shapes made of marzipan. The almondy taste and smell of a plucked twinkling star made him think of Dobby and the other house-elves serving the delicacy as a treat on Boxing Day after another table-groaning dinner of left-overs from Christmas Day. While tempted to take another treat, he decided to leave them for later.

As he sat in front of the fire, he reached for his book, almost knocking over a goblet of steaming mulled wine. Recalling Albus and Minerva's fondness for the drink, a cautious sip preceded a deep draught, the hot spices rolling pleasantly on his tongue and down his suddenly parched throat, taking him back to the kinder days at Hogwarts.

Staring into the fire, lost in his memories, he almost missed the cat slinking out from under the tree. Stretching, it sauntered over to him and, with a stare and a blink and a yawn, it flopped atop his stockinged feet and fell almost instantly asleep. But it kept his toes warm. He watched it for a while and then ignored it, going back to his thoughts and his wine, the book forgot. Just as he decided he should go to bed, the cat rose and leapt for the tree. Before it ducked under the boughs, it turned and regarded him almost expectantly.

He cleared his throat. "I don't know if you're the reason for such bittersweet gifts, but if you are, thank you."

A low gravelly meow its only reply, it darted under the tree out of sight. With a sigh, he bid it goodnight and retired to his room, leaving the door open.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

The Red Reign Challenge: This Christmastime  
**The Twelfth Night : A Faerie Tale**  
by I Got Tired of Waiting

**December 27 : All I Want for Christmas is Two Left Feet**

The apple went well with his morning gruel, but the Owl greedily eyeing his bowl was not as welcome. Scanning the contents of the letter it had carried, he scowled. Mrs Peabody again. He hated working for Mrs Peabody, a most unpleasant witch given to lecturing him about his evil ways while he did the dirtiest, and in this season, coldest chores she could devise for one such as himself. He hesitated, looking at the bag of Galleons on the counter, but decided that, no matter how unpleasant she could be, it was probably best if he kept his gold for a leaner day. Scrawling a reply on the parchment, he sent the owl on its way and quickly finished his, by now, cold breakfast.

Muttering to himself about vindictive old biddies and chilblains, he trudged off to his bedchamber to get dressed. While pulling on his trousers, the cat inched into the room with something in its mouth, which it dropped at his feet. Picking up the small object, he found himself holding a pair of warm socks. He'd no more asked, "Where did this come from?" than the cat ran out into the other room. Following it, he discovered there was an open box under the tree filled with thick warm socks of all colours. Shaking his head at this reminder of Albus and his lurid footwear, he took the box into the bedchamber and quickly sorted them into his drawers, no longer questioning the magic tree and its mysterious bounty. As an afterthought, he pulled the old patched ones he'd set aside to be tossed and, stuffing the least holey in the now-empty box, he placed it back under the tree. Sniffing it warily, the cat mewed and, after much scratching and rearranging the contents, curled into its new bed.

That evening, he returned to the cottage depressed, cold, wet, and very hungry and was met at the door by the cat, who greeted him by laying a mouse at his feet. He chuckled, immeasurably cheered by the small gift. "After a day with that old bint, even a mouse looks good. My thanks for the offer, but I suggest you enjoy your bounty, for I've still nothing to feed you."

Thinking of the cold work he'd done, he doffed his threadbare cloak, hanging it carefully by the door, hoping it would dry before morn. The effort of making a meal almost more than he could bear, he settled for a simple, but filling meal of a bit of tinned beef atop some bread fried in egg. Looking at the small bit of egg remaining in the bottom of the bowl, he added a dollop of milk and set the mixture before the cat which, with no mouse to be seen, was licking its whiskers. "Don't get used to it," he admonished, pushing the bowl towards it. "I just don't want the egg to go to waste." He smiled as the cat all but jumped on the treat, licking the bowl clean in the time it took to put his plate on the table. As he tucked into his supper, he almost wished he had more to give it.

After cleaning his dishes, he settled wearily into his chair in front of the fire. As he opened his book, the cat leapt into his lap. Startled, he raised his hand to push it off when it settled in a tight cat-ball and started purring. Bemused, he hesitantly petted it, intrigued by the rough patches of fur and hard knobbly lines he could feel under it. As he ran his fingers through the long tawny and black strands, he realised the cat bore many scars, the length and thickness of its fur hiding that it didn't have a full coat. His long, sensitive fingers touched the skin underneath in places, finding some of it raw and almost scaly.

"So you've a harder life than one would think, have you?" he asked, his fingers combing the cat's fur until became soft and smooth. With each stroke, each touch, its purr deepened until its entire body vibrated with its pleasure. Slitted eyes, slowly opening and closing, watched him while sharp claws flexed and retracted against his robes in a rhythm he found soothing.

"You would have liked Albus, or should I say, Albus would have liked you." The cat butted his hand. "He had a habit of taking in strays, like me, I suppose, and those no one would ever look at twice and, in each of us, he found our potential, our talents." He scratched behind the cat's ears. "And he made us shine. Well, maybe not on the outside," he temporized, thinking of Hagrid and Argus, "but on the inside. He gave us purpose and pride." His hand rested on the cat's side, the purr rumbling against his skin. "He was my friend, and I miss him."

An odd kinship established between them, the cat licked his hand before jumping off his lap. Realising how tired he really was, he retired, strangely disappointed when the cat, with a long, low meow, slunk back under the tree.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

The Red Reign Challenge: This Christmastime  
**The Twelfth Night : A Faerie Tale**  
by I Got Tired of Waiting

**December 28 : The Magic of Yuletide**

Washing his breakfast plate, he groused, "I have to go to the old bint's again. Today she wants me to 'sweep her walks and get the ice off the gutters' because she's too damned lazy to go outside and flick her wand."

The beast, licking its whiskers clean of the last bits of milk and egg, favoured him with one of its more inscrutable stares.

"Afterwards, I'll take my wages and see what I can scrounge for our supper." As the cat rubbed against his ankles, purring in what he took to be sympathy, he added, "Do try to stay out of trouble." Sitting back on its haunches, the cat yowled at him in token protest, and he smiled.

Preparing to leave, he grabbed his old cloak off its peg and almost dropped it when the foreign magic within it sparked up his arms. Stunned, he glanced at the cat regarding him so solemnly before studying the like-new fabric; the warming charms he'd been unable to renew himself were as strong as anything he'd been able to cast before...

Not sensing anything harmful, he slid it on, luxuriating in the soft wool, its warmth reminding him strangely of Remus and the threadbare clothing he'd always worn. Cheered and yet depressed, he made his way out the door. And he wondered.

That evening, after a hearty supper of fish and chips shared with his new companion, they settled in his chair for an evening's read, the cat once again in his lap, purring as he absently petted it. His reading interrupted by his day's thoughts and memories, he set the book aside and concentrated on the creature deriving such pleasure from his merest touch.

That he enjoyed it as well didn't bear thought, so rather than dwell on it, he murmured, "Remus was a wolf, but only on the full moon. When I was young, I thought him handsome but was afraid of him, of all his kind really, and it wasn't until I was an adult that I learned to see past his nature to the man underneath." The cat shifted until his hands were buried in its belly fur. "He died, you know, saving my life. See, he went to a Death Eater meeting to rescue me when Voldemort confirmed I was a spy for Albus. I escaped," his voice broke, "and they tore him apart in retribution."

The cat licked his hand as he whispered, "He had no kin, so I can't even repay my debt to him." A furry head was laid into his open hand. "I didn't know him as well as I should have, but I do miss him."

It was strange how much comfort he found in this creature's simple touch, its tongue rough and raspy on the palm of his hand. Soon after, the cat jumped down and crawled under the tree, leaving him with his regrets and an odd sense of disappointment.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

The Red Reign Challenge: This Christmastime  
**The Twelfth Night : A Faerie Tale**  
by I Got Tired of Waiting

**December 29 : Silent Night**

Buttoning the sleeve of his robe as he entered the sitting room, the first thing he noticed was the tree shaking, the marzipan and apples swinging back and forth quite violently. The second was a low growling rumble, almost on the edge of a yowl, a frustrated sound if he'd ever heard one and, given how many he'd uttered himself as a professor, he considered it a rather informed opinion.

He was about to peer under the tree, for he had no doubts as to who was making such a racket, when a reddish ball rolled out from beneath the branches. Twisting and snarling, it was the cat, trapped in something soft and woolly. Sinking to his knees, he placed his hands flat on the writhing mass. "Idiot cat. Hold still," he said softly, but with authority. "You'll only make it worse if you struggle."

It stilled instantly, a pitiful mewling coming muffled from within. Chuckling, he patiently unravelled the beast from its tangled prison, the last claw disengaged without tagging what turned out to be soft, loosely woven fabric. With the cat rubbing its body against his thighs, he examined the long, narrow cloth and realised he held what appeared to be a long woolen scarf patterned in a tartan remarkably like McGonagall's. "Stop that," he admonished absently as the cat tried to bat the fringe on the ends, yet he was amused at its jumping efforts to catch the swaying strands when he dangled them above its head.

Shaking his head at the cat's folly, he stood and wrapped the scarf around his neck, narrowly side-stepping a leaping swipe of dangerous claws. "Playing with the scarf when worn by the human will not be tolerated," he intoned, a smile tugging his lips as the cat yowled once and slunk to a corner of the kitchen, obviously sulking. "I'm going to the village to hunt up some work." He hesitated, then crossed the kitchen to take a few Galleons out of the bag. "There now, just in case. Afterwards, I'll go to market to get us a bite of supper. I should be home before sundown." His last glimpse before leaving was the cat yawning and licking a paw while golden eyes stared longingly at his neckwear.

That evening when he returned, snow and frigid air followed him into the cottage, swirling throughout the warm kitchen. He hung his cloak and scarf by the door and turned to find the cat primly waiting for him with another mouse for their supper. "I see you're decimating my rodent collection," he commented wryly, hiding his small worry at how thin it looked. "Can't see that there's many of them left by now," he added, placing the groceries in their proper cupboards, including a large flat tin of sardines. "So you just eat your mouse and tomorrow morning you can have a spot of fish." He pulled a bottle of milk out of the cold box. "For now, you can wash down your supper with this." He broke the seal and poured a small bit into a bowl.

Glancing at the cat watching him with rapt attention, its haunches wiggling as its tongue licked its whiskers, he sighed and opened the tin of sardines, fishing one out and placing it whole in the bowl. Fork in hand, he turned to his companion and asked, "Mashed?" The cat shook its head like it was shedding water. "I'll take that as a no," he said with a smile, placing the bowl on the floor near his seat at the table. By the time he'd finished cooking his own supper, the cat was cleaning fish and milk off its paws and face; when he sat to eat, it lounged against his legs and feet while grooming its tail.

"I found no work, but the bookstore just received a new shipment, so I bought us one." He picked up the heavy book and read from the spine, "Scottish Wild Cats: The Fact Behind the Myth." Setting the book down, he peered under the table, "Seemed fitting, although had I known I was entertaining a legend, I'd have made you a better throne." The cat yawned, showing sharp fangs before settling its white muzzle in what he could only call a grin.

However, he didn't get his read that night, for the wind outside blew so hard it made a backdraft in the sitting room chimney, the room quickly filling with more smoke than heat. Calling it an early night, he closed the damper and moved the remainder of the firewood into the bedchamber. He returned to the kitchen to grab a handful of Prophets and his new scarf before going back to his room, the cat watching his every move from under the tree, its tail swishing and flicking from side to side. Standing in the door opening, he said, "It will be cold in here tonight. You may share my fire, if you wish."

The cat blinked, seemingly as surprised by the offer as he himself. Hesitantly, the cat slunk into the room, darting under the bed as soon as its tail cleared the doorframe. He shook his head, making a new fire in the bed chamber. Wetting a finger, he tested the air and stuffed old Prophets into some draughty chinks. After dressing for bed, he wrapped the new scarf around his neck and hastily climbed under the duvet.

His room lit only by the fire, which for some reason was behaving better than the one earlier, he fingered the soft woolen garment around his neck. A few minutes later the cat crept from under the bed to stretch out on the hearth so close to the flames, he thought for certain its fur would start smoking. As he watched the cat's eyes move, he realised it was tracking the movements of his hand on the scarf. Chuckling, he commented, "Minerva was just as single-minded as you seem to be and twice as stubborn; she used to drive me to bedlam." He smiled in the dark remembering her tart rejoinders, her good humour, her _fierceness_, much like the feline gracing his hearth. "Maybe it's a Scottish cat affectation, but you remind me of her--even when she was human." He turned on his back and lay staring at the top of his four-poster. "I think she stayed with him to the bitter end, but I'll never know what happened; she was killed in the last battle. I found her just few feet from the Forbidden Forest."

He closed his eyes, the cat's gaze heavy upon him. "I miss her, but you make her loss easier to bear somehow." Shying away from other, more painful, thoughts of that day, he eventually fell into a restless slumber.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

The Red Reign Challenge: This Christmastime  
**The Twelfth Night : A Faerie Tale**  
by I Got Tired of Waiting

**December 30 : By The Softness of My Lover's Hands**

The vibrations against his head eventually woke him. Reaching up, he encountered a warm, furry body crushing the top of his pillow and heavy, hot paws resting against his ear and face on one side, more paws and a thick bushy tail brushing the other. Being warm and toasty, he was loathe to get up, but having other ideas, the cat stretched, its claws accidentally catching the skin of his cheek. Startled, he sat up abruptly, the claw's razor edges slicing furrows down one side. Yelling in pain, his hand swiped the welling blood from his face as the cat jumped off the bed with a yowling cry and streaked out of the room. In the bathroom, he doctored what turned out to be mere scratches, thinking he'd overreacted. As he dressed he decided that the next time, if he hadn't scared it away forever, he should just lay still and not react; he would not have been hurt had he done so.

As he entered the sitting room, he spied the cat crouching under the tree. He sank to his haunches, murmuring apologies, when he noticed it lying on something. Carefully, he tugged on what he soon discovered was soft leather and, with a little pull, he found himself holding a pair of fur-lined gloves. Grateful for the gift because his had worn out last season, and he'd not the money to buy new, he pulled them on, stunned as memories, long suppressed, flowed through him of a love he'd once won, then lost.

Hastily pulling them off, he threw the gift to the floor and staggered to the kitchen. He sat heavily in the chair, his head in his hands as he fought to control the pain flooding his mind and heart. A bump against his leg made him look down to see the cat rubbing against his leg, the gloves in its mouth. Mewing piteously, the cat dropped them at his feet and nudged them closer to him until he bent and picked them up.

Without a word, he jumped from the chair, the cat barely scampering away from his panicked path. The gloves crushed in his fist, he threw on his cloak and stormed out of the cottage.

A thick fall of snow blanketed his bare head and shoulders when he returned that evening. Wearily he hung the cloak and scarf by the door. That the kitchen was as empty of companionship as it had ever been should not have bothered him; that _tonight_ no creature, human or otherwise, awaited his return filled him with regret. Concerned, he wandered the cottage, peering into cupboards and even under the bed, but could not find it. Movement by the tree caught his eye and he smiled at the twitching tip of a long, ringed tail peeping through the lowest branches; he should have known it was there. Sinking painfully to his knees, he laid his head on the floor, sighing when he spotted it huddled near the back against the wall.

"Idiot cat," he coaxed quietly. "Have you been there all day?"

The cat shifted its haunches and stared at him with huge, unblinking eyes.

"Come now. Come out," he soothed. "I'm sorry I scared you this morning. Aren't you hungry?"

Belly low to the ground, the cat growled and move forward a cautious step; he wasn't quite certain if it was afraid or stalking him. Regardless, he admired the inherent power of its sleek muscles as, inch by inch, the cat crept from under the tree to sit calmly at his feet, the golden eyes holding his attention captive.

For the first time, he picked it up, holding it fast in his arms. Surprised when the growling turned into purring, he ran a hand over the soft fur while mumbling soothing nonsense; just who it was he was trying to comfort, he didn't know, nor care. He carried it tucked on his arm and poured himself a snifter of brandy he'd managed to sneak out from Hogwarts and had since hoarded, although he noticed its level of false courage was near bottom. Snifter in hand, he settled in the chair with the cat held firmly in his lap. Petting the creature, he haltingly at first and later with more confidence, told him of Harry.

"I loved him, you know." His hands carded through the thick fur, seeking the warmth near the skin. "I still do; I could almost feel his touch when I put on the gloves this morning," he murmured. "Never really understood what he saw in me, but he said... and showed me he loved me back."

A head butted his arm, while the golden eyes asked him a host of questions.

"How? In many little ways, I suppose, but mostly in how he would look at me... with trust... like I had value. He gave up his friends for me; I never appreciated until recently how much courage that must have required." He stared into the fire. "No one had ever... cherished..."

He dug his hand deep into the thick fur of the cat's nape, the rumbling strong against the tips of his fingers. "I don't know why I'd hoped he'd survive. We both knew he wouldn't, and yet... Yet I'd dared dream of a future with him. Silly, really. When he killed Voldemort, and I never doubted he would, he just... vanished. I suppose I'd hoped he'd interpreted the prophecy wrong like so many of his other guesses..." He choked. "How supremely ironic he got this one right; they both died together."

The logs snapped and crackled in the fireplace. "I wasn't there for him at the end, you know. We were separated in the final battle and he faced... Voldemort alone."

He drained the brandy, his hands still seeking a comfort he didn't much deserve. "I should never have hoped, should never have wanted..." he whispered as the stinging in his eyes ran scalding down his face. "What I should have done was follow him when I had my chance, before..." His hands clenched into fists, the fur thick between his fingers. "Gods, how I miss him."

Mewling, the cat slipped from under his hands, the huge back paws sharp points of pain in his thighs as the wicked claws of his front paws anchored firmly in the heavy robes near his shoulders. A soft, furry face rubbed hard against his jaw several times before a sandpaper tongue licked the wet saltiness from his cheeks and nose. Through his grumbling, growling purr, he could almost hear the cat alternately scolding and comforting him for such thoughts.

Standing from the chair and moving into the bedchamber, the cat held close to his chest, he chuckled. "Perhaps it's just as well I'm such a coward; who else would feed you milk?" With a laughing growl, the feline jumped out of his arms onto the bed and circled the pillow before settling directly at the top, mashing it into the headboard. Golden eyes filled with a loving trust followed his every move as he readied for bed. Pulling the duvet under his chin, he shivered, waiting for the bed to warm, and with a gentle rumbling soothing his hurts, he closed his eyes to sleep, the visions of his lost lover peacefully welcomed as they'd not been for years.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

The Red Reign Challenge: This Christmastime  
**The Twelfth Night : A Faerie Tale**  
by I Got Tired of Waiting

**December 31 : Auld Ang Syne**

He slept late and woke refreshed, his dreams having been filled with all the happy times he'd once had with his lover. However, reality intruded when the cat, shifting from paw to paw on his chest, butted his chin, meowing continuously in what he surmised to be a rather cheeky request for food. Digging deeper into the bed, he groused, "I fail to see why I should stir to feed your lazy arse when you're perfectly capable of catching your own breakfast."

Glaring balefully, the cat turned his arse to him, tail held high in indignation, and with the obvious evidence so close to his face, he couldn't help but notice his cat was most definitely a 'he'. Playfully pushing 'him' away, he exclaimed, "Go on now, you auld sod. Take you and your furry balls elsewhere."

As the cat pranced down his legs, claws digging deep enough to nip his bare legs, the name 'auld sod' danced about his head until it settled into 'Ossie'. It might not be much of a name, but at least the beast had one now. Reaching the end of the bed, the cat lightly jumped off and sat by the doorway, singing his hunger.

"All right, all right, Ossie, I'm coming," he muttered, throwing the covers aside.

The cat stilled and stared at him.

Donning his dressing gown over his nightshirt, he moved into the kitchen, asking as he passed, "What? You don't like it?" Given that the creature almost tripped him with his enthusiastic rubbing around his feet as he strode to the kitchen, he assumed the name met with his approval, or else Ossie was really hungry.

In between hearty bites of toast and eggs, he laid out the day's plans. "Given the hour, there'll be no work for me today, I'm thinking, so I'll just go to market to buy provisions for the next few days; MacGruger's will be closed tomorrow." Laying on his feet, Ossie paused in his washing to rub his face against his legs. "Glad you approve," he replied with a wry chuckle.

After dressing, he took his basket and two market bags from a cupboard. Donning his cloak and scarf, he hesitated and moved back to the counter. "Maybe a bit of ham, some fresh vegetables," he mumbled, sweeping a few Galleons from the bag into his pocket. "And a fish."

He returned near sunset. After unpacking his purchases, he made them a simple supper--bangers and mash for him, egg and raw chicken laced with boiled barley and chopped greens for Ossie. He smiled as the cat cautiously sniffed the bowl's contents, but after a small growl, he tucked in with as much enthusiasm as he did any other meal. Surprisingly, the cat disappeared as he was washing dishes, but given that the stove was banked for the night, he assumed he'd gone to lounge by the fire in the sitting room.

When the hearth proved empty, he next checked under the tree, which he noted now had small oranges as well as apples adorning its still-fragrant branches.

Near the front, Ossie stood guard over a plain wooden box tied with a black ribbon. Suddenly serious, he reached for it with shaking hands. Opening it, he found within his old wand, broken in half with the core missing. Heart pounding, he traced the now-fragile wood with a fingertip, utterly undone when no remnant of magic answered his touch. So responsive his wand had been, so much power he'd controlled with hard-earned ease, so ultimately powerless it became when uncaring, self-righteous hands had snapped it in half the day of his sentencing.

He took the box and wand to his chair, sinking into it numbly. Ossie jumped into his lap, purring and rubbing his face against his chest. Long, elegant hands caressed the worn wood, almost feeling the power it had once contained. As he stared longingly at what had once been his to master, Ossie licked his bent face. Looking up, golden eyes captured black with a gaze of compassion so deep, it stole his breath. Whiskers tickled his fingers as the black nose nudged the wooden fragments and box aside, making room for him to lay down. Staring at him, the cat begged with his eyes.

Wand pieces in one hand, soft fur under the other, he told his tale. "They didn't take my magic away, you know," he said quietly, "they merely made it impossible for me to use it." His fist tightened around the brittle wood. "They thought themselves merciful, but I can still feel it coursing through me. Every day, every hour, every second, I _know_ what I lost the moment they snapped this wand and cast their _geas_ on me." The fur smoothed beneath his palm. "I'm not certain the kiss wouldn't have been kinder, but Albus, bless his soul, tried to help from beyond the grave. His written testament clearly detailed my role in the war, so their clemency extended only to keeping me alive enough to bear the punishment they deemed fitting for a former Death Eater with blood on his hands, no matter how nobly he'd shed it." Ossie shifted and hissed. "Oh, the trial was fair, they told no lies; Albus' papers saw to that. But without his compassion to temper them? No, I was damned regardless."

Ossie stood and licked his face then rubbed his jowls against his jaw. Such strange comfort to be found in such simple gestures, and yet he had to ask whether it was enough to stave the bitter irony? He'd mostly chosen to go it alone, but now? When his choices had been removed? "I hate this exile in which they've left me. I sometimes think I would be better off..."

With a low, angry growl, Ossie swept the box and the wand to the floor with his paws, the broken remains spilling onto the rug. The words of censure stilled on the edge of his tongue as his companion jumped down and began nudging the fallen items towards the fire. Once the cat had them arranged to his satisfaction on the hearth, and he had no doubts they'd been placed there for some unknown purpose, Ossie sat on his haunches, staring at him expectantly.

Thoughts of what he'd lost warred with thoughts of what he had now, and he soon realised that, magic aside, his life wasn't as lost as he'd often led himself to believe. Perhaps it was time to choose at least a part of his own fate, to not dwell so much on the past and move on into his future, one he could make himself, regardless how limited it might be. Just as the village clock struck midnight, he knelt in front of the fireplace and, taking the old wand, box and all, he tossed it into the fire.

Standing, he turned away, determined to let it burn without him. He picked up the cat and, as he moved into the bedchamber, he said, "You're right, my friend; it's time to start a new life."

Much later, the cat tucked in his arms, he fell asleep, dreaming of sparkling embers dancing healing magic around his soul.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

The Red Reign Challenge: This Christmastime  
**The Twelfth Night : A Faerie Tale**  
by I Got Tired of Waiting

**January 1 : A New Year**

An odd feeling of hope in his heart, he greeted the day with a stretch almost as decadent as that of the furry creature decorating his chest. The sun well on its way to afternoon, his stomach growled just as Ossie stood to start his morning begging, the large paws uncomfortably pressing his skin into the bone as he shifted from food to foot, his toes and claws kneading the duvet.

"Yes, yes. I think I'm glad to see you, too, but if you keep that up, I may let you starve," he growled, rubbing the sore spots on his chest when the cat fled the bed to sit by the door. Taking in the glare the cat levelled at him from afar, he chuckled. "If you've complaints about the service, I suggest you leave them in the litter box." His stomach rumbling louder than Ossie's best purr, he hastened through his ablutions, throwing on an old robe he found in the back of his closet; he would need to do laundry tomorrow.

After he consumed his ham with less delicacy than Ossie his fish, he cleaned the dishes while the cat groomed his paws and face. Once done, he grabbed the book he'd been reading about wild cats in one hand and his wild cat in the other. Moving to the sitting room, he settled with both in his chair, intending to read more about Ossie's culinary requirements; the articles about the grains he needed to eat had already proved enlightening, if perhaps not as palatable as the beast might have liked.

The pages turning, he soon lost track of the time measured only by how many times Ossie twisted into the most impossible positions either on his lap or burningly close to the fire, and how many times he rose to use the loo and get more tea. Before he knew it, he realised that squinting at the print fading before his eyes would be useless if he didn't get more light. He really didn't think much on Ossie's absence when he returned to the room with the candles for the lamps. Using a Muggle match, he lit three and had no more settled back in his chair when Ossie sauntered from under the tree, carrying a long, thin wooden box by its red ribbon. Curious, yet unconcerned, he picked up the box where it had been dropped at his feet and set it on the arm of the chair, the cat immediately following. However, instead of draping his furry self all over his lap, as was his usual wont, Ossie started nosing the box and rubbing his face over the light coloured wood.

Undoing the ribbon, he opened the box to find a stick of yew, the needles dark green and shiny, the berries bright red. He plucked it out of its nest of cotton, studying it from all sides, but he could see nothing much out of the ordinary except the branch itself was remarkably straight. Nor did it contain any magic. Confused by this latest gift, he shrugged and set it on the mantel out of harm's way.

"At least it's decorative," he said to Ossie, who'd commandeered his chair and dared him with wiggling whiskers to move him. Brow raised, he seated himself, albeit slower than his norm, satisfied when the cat budged over, leaving him sufficient room to the side. Belly up, his head hanging over the front of the chair, Ossie fell asleep, purring. Fingers buried in the thick fur, idly stroking, he turned the pages one-handed as he avidly read about, _'The Alimentary Benefits of Grasses and Insects in Your Cat's Diet',_ said creature blissfully unaware of the culinary 'treats' in store for him.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

The Red Reign Challenge: This Christmastime  
**The Twelfth Night : A Faerie Tale**  
by I Got Tired of Waiting

**January 2 : A Phoenix in an Evergreen Tree**

"Ossie? Ossie, where are you going with my sock? Ossie, get back here this instant! Ossie? _Ossie!_"

He now had a better idea of how much cats liked laundry baskets. Oh, not necessarily the receptacle itself, but its contents--preferably dirty. No more had one sock, found under the bed, been thrown into the basket, than it wandered off into other parts of the cottage, captured in the mouth of a four-footed thief.

By the time he'd collected all his clothes into one place, making certain they stayed there by the simple expedient of turning the basket upside down and anchoring it with some Muggle Encyclopaedias on top, it was almost noon. Irritated and frazzled, he knew he would get no work that day and would have to dip once again into the bag of Galleons. For five Knuts a load, he could wash his clothes in a local woman's magical cauldrons, for six he could have her spell them dry.

Ossie sufficiently cowed into his spot under the tree, he loaded the basket in peace and set it on the kitchen table while he donned his cloak and scarf. White whiskers attached to a tawny muzzle peeped around the doorway, prompting him to admonish, "Don't even _look_ at it." A mewl of protest the only reply, he smiled in satisfaction and left the cottage.

He returned earlier than normal, smug that today he'd had the Galleon necessary to have the house-elf of her establishment wash, dry, and fold his clothes and bedding, a luxury he'd only been able to afford once before. However, being more frugal than McGonagall, he'd not paid the extra gold to have it delivered, something he began to regret halfway through the long, cold trek back to the cottage.

The door slamming shut behind him with the ferocious wind, he set the heavy basket on the table before hanging his cloak on the peg by the door. A loud growling snarl caught his attention. Given that the noises Ossie was making were far more serious than the norm, he hurried into the sitting room.

The cause of his cat's agitation was immediately apparent, if one believed animals could feel strong magic, as the experts suggested. Whether this was universally true, he knew not, but it obviously was of his wild cat. Staring incredulously, he barely reconciled this fierce beast ready to do battle with the fluffy cat who let him tickle his belly. Fangs bared in a long hiss, his fur standing straight out from his body, Ossie stood guard over a package bearing so much magic, he could almost touch it.

He cautiously stroked the cat until his fur smoothed and gently moved him aside. He picked up the box, strangely unafraid and very excited. Carefully, he pulled the lid off to find, wrapped in red onionskin, a wide pipette with two long red feathers inside. Fresh Phoenix feathers, their magical signature so familiar, he almost looked for Fawkes nearby.

Calm as if nothing had happened, the cat licked the glass and mewled in blatant curiosity. He admitted to some himself, wondering why he would receive such a gift. Aside from the obvious uses the feathers would have should he become sick, he hadn't the ability anymore to avail himself of their other properties. Sighing, he knew it didn't matter for now, so he took the feathers and carefully set them in the box with the yew, noting sadly that the needles and berries were already dead and desiccated.

Without comment he went into the kitchen and made them a simple supper, after which they retired to the sitting room. As Ossie slumbered peacefully on his feet by the fire, he read the next chapter, _'The Salutary Effects of Catnip',_ without further incident.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

The Red Reign Challenge: This Christmastime  
**The Twelfth Night : A Faerie Tale**  
by I Got Tired of Waiting

**January 3 : A Joyous Noisome**

He stalked into the house caked head to foot in muck, his cloak and scarf held gingerly at arm's length. As he hung them on the peg by the door, Ossie took one whiff and bolted for the other room, hiding under the tree with accusatory howls. Half-frozen, as he'd not dared soil his outer garments with the mess, he wrinkled his nose against his own stench and removed his clothing at the door, throwing the soiled garments outside into the snow, before marching naked into the bathroom. An hour later, he finally emerged clean and reclothed, the endless hot water a luxury he'd not appreciated much until this moment. Exhausted, he wearily sat in his chair by the fire, unable to summon even the energy to make his supper. Cleaning Claudius' Gryphon stalls had proved more noisome that he'd thought they would be; the lone Galleon he'd earned wouldn't even replace the old clothing he'd never be able to clean.

A soft mewling drew his attention to the floor. He smiled when he saw the apple and mouse the cat had brought him. Such a simple gesture, but it made him feel warm inside. He picked up the apple with a soft noise of thanks, adding quietly, "I'll share the mouse tonight; the apple should prove plenty."

Fascinated, he watched the cat consume the rodent before drinking deeply out of his bowl. Before he could stop him, the cat jumped into his lap, his breath sweet, which he found odd considering what Ossie had just eaten. Claws sinking into his lap, Ossie didn't stay long and jumped back to the floor, walking to the tree. Digging underneath, he emerged a few minutes later carrying in his mouth a gold ribbon tied in a loose circle. Nudging it with his nose, he stood with one paw on one edge of the ribbon and worked his head into the loop until it settled around his neck like a collar. Daintily, he sauntered back and lithely jumped into his lap.

Intrigued, he examined the ribbon, finding a tiny bronze key and a small vial marked, "Phoenix Tears," threaded through it. He tried removing the ribbon from around Ossie's neck, but the magic crackling around it had shrunk it, keeping it firmly in place. He could not open the vial.

Golden eyes stared at him as he contemplated this latest gift.

"I have no idea what this is about, but the Phoenix tears might come in handy later as I used up the last of the supply they'd left me last year when I had an infection in my hand," he said, soothing his cat's apparent concern with gentle strokes down the centre of Ossie's scarred face.

Blinking, the cat settled in his lap, his purring a soothing counterpoint to an inexplicable unease. Deciding not to worry about it, he picked up his book and began to read the next chapter, _'Keeping Your Cat Away From the Clothes Line."_

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

The Red Reign Challenge: This Christmastime  
**The Twelfth Night : A Faerie Tale**  
by I Got Tired of Waiting

**January 4 : The Magical Mystery Christmas**

He came back to the cottage in good spirits. The job for Miss Parsons at the village library had been easy and rewarding; shelving and cataloguing two cartons of new arrivals had earned him a goodly wage and netted him two new books to read. The only downside had been enduring her simpering flirtation; the old girl had taken a shine to him, but if it gained him so much, who was he to discourage her?

However, once he'd expressed such a sentiment, Ossie replied with unexpected displeasure, the hard bite to his ankle not really painful, just startling. As he'd resolved the morning Ossie had accidentally scratched his cheek, he stilled the impulse to jerk his leg from this latest display of feline strangeness. A few heartbeats later, the cat let go with a prolonged growl and, holding his tail high as he stalked away, sat sulking in the corner by the stove. After satisfying himself that nothing was damaged, he fed the still-grumbling cat a bowl of milk and a bit of fish he'd set aside from the lunch the old librarian had insisted he eat. Seemingly mollified by his offering, Ossie ate with gusto and then purred around his ankles while he cooked his supper; if he didn't know better, he'd have thought the cat jealous. Piffle.

After drying their dishes, he succumbed to curiosity and peeked under the tree to see what--if anything--awaited him, for there'd been nothing forthcoming that morning. He was not disappointed when he found a largish box in gay wrapping paper and a silver ribbon. What did surprise him was how heavy it was, so he sat on the floor and opened it there, Ossie sitting patiently to the side.

As he lifted the lid off, Ossie snagged a piece of the red tissue paper balled inside and batted it around the room, leaping and pouncing every time it came to rest. He watched the cat's antics a bit, laughing aloud when Ossie flipped on his back and juggled a largish wad with his paws, the back claws ripping into it, sending shreds of paper flying in every direction. With the admonishment, "I'm _not_ cleaning up behind you," he dipped his hands into the box, the weight losing its mystery as he lifted out an old, wide Pensieve. Nestled inside its deep bowl, wrapped in more paper, was a jar filled with a ruby liquid.

"What the hell...?" Hands shaking, he carefully worked the lid off the jar and sniffed cautiously. Hastily replacing the lid, he asked, "Do you have any idea what this is?" He snorted. "Of course you don't. It's a full jar of _Oil of Possibilities_." He tapped the lid with his forefinger. "I've only seen it once before--a tiny vial we had in the locked potions stores at Hogwarts. It's priceless in any quantity, but this much...?" Ossie rolled over and regarded him with solemn eyes. "We could live forever like kings... should we ever sell it."

Gently he placed both bowl and jar back into the box. "I wonder why someone would give this to _me_. I can't even use it. Perhaps I'm _supposed_ to sell it--" Ossie worried his fingers and growled, "--or not." He resolutely replaced the lid and, with a groan and grimace, stiffly struggled to his feet. Brushing off his robes, he gave both tree and gift a long stare before settling into his chair with one of his new books, Ossie snug by his side.

Yet his concentration wandered from his reading as he tried to untangle the puzzle facing him. His gaze straying to the tempting box under the tree, he noted with confusion that not one shred of paper littered the floor. He glanced at the cat calmly grooming his tail beside him and sighed in frustration. Finally giving an exclamation of disgust, he shook his head at this newest mystery, gathered his night's wood and retired for bed.

As he stared at the canopy dark above him, he contemplated the possibilities behind his more recent gifts, including a cat who seemed to work his own magic. He supposed he should question the source of such bounty, but he'd lately found that good fortune, if it harmed no one, should never be refused, regardless the source. He certainly was better for it, unless one counted the frustration of not knowing the meaning behind it all... and that just took him 'round to...

The serene gaze of said wild cat, quietly settled on his chest, as much as his soothing purr, eventually lulled his human into a restless slumber.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

The Red Reign Challenge: This Christmastime  
**The Twelfth Night : A Faerie Tale**  
by I Got Tired of Waiting

**January 5 : God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman**

He awoke as restless as his slumber the night before. Deciding to stay home for the day, he sent Ossie flying under the bed with a disgruntled yowl as he cleaned the small cottage from top to bottom, the cat emerging only long enough to take some lunch and to bat the broom bristles as he swept the kitchen floor.

After an early dinner, he moved into the sitting room, disappointed he could see nothing under the tree. About to turn to his chair, a rustling sound caught his ear and, as he peered under the low-lying boughs, there came a flash of light. Within seconds Ossie appeared, nudging a small bottle from the back. When the cat rolled it to him, he picked it up, hefting its surprising weight.

Turning it to read the label in the dim candlelight, he finally made out: _'Draught of Memory PQO'_. Holding it carefully, he made his way back to his chair and fell into it heavily. "Why on earth...?" The magical signature he could feel tingling along his palm didn't lie; this Draught was specifically made for him. He rolled the heavy bottle in his hands, trying to fathom why _he_ should be gifted with a Potion designed to pass on a memory from one person to another. It couldn't be an accident, for its properties demanded it be made to _him_, using something personal so no other could benefit from it. He wasn't an apprentice to some great wizard needing to pass on craft secrets and difficult techniques, nor was he bound to a wizard romantically, the gift one of sharing. No, he wasn't a wizard at all.

However... "Who is PQO and why would this person have sent me a memory?" he asked the cat sitting primly at his feet. "And what is your part in all this?" The cat said nothing, but licked his whiskers as if trying something tasty.

As he contemplated this latest mystery, Ossie jumped in his lap and nosed the bottle, eventually forcing it near his face. "You think I should drink it?" he asked suspiciously. With a decisive meow, the cat pushed the bottle closer to his mouth with his paw. With a flash of decision, he worked out the sealed stopper and downed the draught in one long swallow.

At first nothing happened, and then the new knowledge assailed him. In a daze he retrieved the items from the mantel and the box still lying under the tree, taking them into the kitchen. Arranging everything out on the table, he poured the Oil of Possibilities into the Pensieve. He then pulled out the yew, now a bare twig and dropped it into the liquid. As it slowly settled near the bottom of the stone vessel, he uncorked the pipette and set the Phoenix feathers atop the thick liquid as well. Holding his breath, he watched the yew straighten and split in half lengthwise, the feathers floating into the hollow revealed. With a snap and a flash of ruby light, the yew closed, sealing the feathers within it.

Ollivander's memory. PQ Ollivander evidently, as no one knew his given name. Coming back to himself, he could only stare at the new wand floating in its pool of possibilities. Could it be real? Could someone really be giving him a second chance? It took all of his will to reach into the liquid to take the wand in shaking hands; he cried in disappointment when no magic answered him. Which, when he thought on it later, shouldn't have surprised him so; they'd made certain his compliance when they'd snapped the old one.

With a heavy heart, he abandoned his shattered hopes at the table and returned to the sitting room, flinging himself into his chair. So far beyond despair he couldn't breathe, he was only half-aware when Ossie leapt into his lap. A velvety paw placed on his cheek finally caught his attention. When he finally looked at the cat, he noticed that Ossie was carrying the ribbon in his mouth which moments before had still been around his neck. Taking the vial of Phoenix tears in hand, he wondered if there was something else he should have done, something not in the memory.

Taking the cap off the vial he thought a moment before dispensing one drop on the wand he still clutched. Despite a faint stirring of magic, nothing happened and he sat back, again depressed. When the paw again met his face, he watched listlessly as Ossie opened his mouth, dropping something into the vial of Phoenix tears. When he realised it was the key, hope blossomed anew as the pearly liquid dissolved it, swirling into an iridescent orange. He sniffed the resultant potion cautiously, but for once he hadn't a clue what he'd made.

Again Ossie urged him to partake and, deciding his life couldn't get any worse, he drank the new concoction. Within moments a sickening dizziness overtook him, but it was nothing compared to the violent wrench that followed, turning him inside out. Slowly his power and control returned, tingling and burning him like blood returning to limbs long deprived. As the potion reversed that which had imprisoned him, the _geas_ weakened and quietly died as the new wand roared to life. Amidst a shower of vivid silver sparks, he let out a whoop of pure joy; he was a wizard again!

Gathering Ossie to him with one arm, he danced about the room, his wand waving. Flick, the fire burned right, and he was finally warm as the magic swirled about the hearth. Swish, a dozen brightly lit candles hovered around him, and he could see... really see where he stood. Wand at his side, his elation faded as incredulous eyes tracked the peeling paint, the damp staining the ceiling and floor, the tiny grimy windows set crooked in walls so draughty, it was no wonder he'd been cold all the time. And he understood. With the _geas_ destroyed, so were its custodial benefits; he now viewed the ramshackle cottage as it truly was. Deflated, he sat in his decrepit chair, wincing when it sagged beneath his weight.

Their weight. The cat, still clutched in his arms, worked his way loose and, between long raspy licks to his nose and cheeks, meowed in a playful tone, his tail swishing sharply back and forth in what could only be construed as happiness. Butting a furry forehead against his chin, Ossie then pressed their noses together, whiffling air into his face. Almost cross-eyed, they stared at each other until he smiled, realising Ossie had the right of it.

"It doesn't matter, does it, boy? They lost." The smile became a grin. "I won. I can set it to rights."

A careful nip to his nose later, the cat jumped off his lap, sauntering towards the bedchamber. Looking back at him saucily over his shoulder, the feline gave him a fang-baring yawn, and suddenly the efforts of the evening caught up to him. As all yawns are infectious, he gave one of his own as he staggered off to bed, the exhaustion creeping up on him faster than he could shed his clothes. Eyes closing in sleep before he'd really settled in the bed, he murmured a good night and a vague thank you to the cat curled snug against his side, the wand never leaving his grasp.

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

The Red Reign Challenge: This Christmastime  
**The Twelfth Night : A Faerie Tale**  
by I Got Tired of Waiting

**January 6 : Epiphany**

He woke alone.

Searching, even under the bed, revealed only the thought that perhaps Ossie was gone as he suspected the cat's purpose was now served with the return of his magic. And as happy as _that_ made him, he deeply regretted the cat's absence.

However, hoping to be wrong, he moved into the sitting room... and stopped stock still, gazing in awe at the tree which was lit by hundreds of faerie lights. By their cheery glow, he spied Ossie curled into a sleeping ball under the tree, his head almost upside down, his nose hidden by his tail. He smiled, questioning anew how any creature could be comfortable so. Almost as if called, the cat woke and stretch-walked out into the light but, to his surprise, moved no closer. Sitting primly, his tail wrapped around his haunches, Ossie merely blinked. And waited.

Maybe it was his name whispered by the soft susurration of snow against the window, or maybe it was a different, yet achingly familiar warmth on his hand from the fire, or maybe it was the clear understanding in the golden eyes regarding him so serenely that made him wonder, made him raise his new wand, made him utter, _"Finite Incantatum."_

Slowly, like a man waking from a drugged dream, the rich thick fur morphed into tattered robes. Reluctantly a battered cat became a man injured on the battlefield. With sweating effort, tawny turned to black. As pain slid into triumph, golden changed to emerald green. _Harry?_ Had the return of his magic addled his wits? Was this the edge of madness? Who was this man, touching himself as though _he_ couldn't believe his transformation either? "Harry?" Had he said it aloud?

"Severus?" croaked hoarsely out of a throat long unused to speaking.

_Severus. I'd almost forgot; my name is Severus._

Tired green eyes held him captive. Hands covered in dried blood reached for him as he swayed. His knees gave way. Strong hands grasped his upper arms, supporting him even as the other body followed him down. Hesitantly, reverently, he raised his hands to the beloved face, twisted now almost beyond recognition by the war's hate. Touching, stroking, feeling, his fingertips rediscovered the curves and planes his awakening heart had hidden. Hands found his face, and his skin remembered love's touch and faith's reward.

"I thought you dead," he whispered.

So real, a warm hand cupped his cheek. "I almost was."

"How...?" He couldn't finish, not when _he_ was so close. Once, then twice, his lips were touched, theirs were touching, were talking, were laughing, were crying. Reality was in the warm mouth beneath his, life was in his lover's arms wrapped tight about him, love was in the murmurs and gasps they both were helpless to stop. How long they held each other, he would never be able to say; forever would not be sufficient.

He suddenly found himself with a mouthful of messy black hair, crusted with what he cared not, as the face beneath it tucked into his neck. The precious body beneath his hands shifted, shook violently, and he tightened his hold lest it prove a waking dream. The breath ghosting his throat grew as hot and moist as the lips pressed against his exposed skin, and still he didn't let go, uncertain he could even if he tried.

Harry's head snuggled into his shoulder, finding with apparent ease that certain spot where it had so often resided. "Gods, you feel so good." Hands desperately gripped his robes.

He spoke his shame. "I wasn't there for you."

And received Harry's absolution. "I went berserk when Voldemort killed Albus. You couldn't have followed me."

"I saw you disappear with him."

"I fell when a Death Eater hit me with a curse as I killed... _him_. Minerva was nearby. She turned me into a cat, said it was easier to carry me."

"But... she..."

"Was with me..." Harry shuddered. "Then not. McNair killed her. She fell on me and he moved on. I crawled away to the trees."

Only a few feet had parted them. He tightened his hold.

"It's all right, Severus. How were you to know? I was unconscious; when I woke she was gone."

"We never found your body. I should have looked, should have..."

"From where? Azkaban?" Harry asked sharply. "Or did you mean to add you should have 'followed' me to where you'd thought I'd gone?" he asked, the fierceness in his eyes making Severus catch his breath. "I'm grateful you didn't, though," he finished softly. Inhaling sharply, he wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Fah, I stink."

"You smell alive," Severus corrected gently, kissing his forehead, "but perhaps a bath might make you feel better."

Harry smiled shyly. "Ever the diplomat, Severus?" he asked wryly. "Cats aren't as averse to water as you'd think, but I've made do with spit baths. It _has_ been a while..."

"Over two years, if I recall," he replied with a smile. "Well, a bath it is, then. At least this house has unlimited hot water."

"About all it has," Harry muttered.

Severus placed his hand on his shoulder, unwilling to let him go even for an instant. Perhaps later he could do so, but for now... "What? You've complaints about the luxurious accommodations?"

Harry looked away but not before Severus had seen a thoughtful frown. "Harry?"

Taking the hand on his shoulder in his own, Harry kissed the palm. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his eyes roaming over the room. "I wish I could have been here sooner. I'm so sorry you had to go through all this..."

Severus cupped his cheek and pulled his face around until their eyes met and held. "I'm not. Sometimes one has to lose something to fully appreciate its return." His thumb caressed Harry's scarred cheek. "Now, weren't you about to bathe?"

"Join me?"

"Always."

After casting an _Ever-Clear and Warm_ charm, he ran the water hot and deep while helping Harry peel the crusted robes from his too-thin body. Harry ducked his head, refusing to meet his eyes as each layer revealed what he'd feared; the scars his lover had borne as a cat were manifest over the rest of his human self as well, but... he was alive. When Harry's eyes tracked over the burnt skin visible to him, he folded on himself trying to hide with his body the detritus of a Death Eater's revenge. Severus held him, murmuring soothingly as he coaxed him into the tub.

He'd not originally intended anything more than keeping Harry company as he bathed, but with the blind trust just bestowed upon him, his own robes soon followed and he stiffly stepped into the tub, settling Harry in front of him, his back to his chest. An old flannel in one hand and soap in the other, Severus concentrated on simply bathing his lover, gentling with steady hands the trembling flesh, his own needs set aside for the moment.

Harry was silent, too silent, and as he ran soothing hands over the now-clean back, he succumbed to temptation and kissed the nape of his neck, rewarded by a shiver that had nothing to do with fear. Leaning back in the tub, he pulled Harry with him, his arms loosely held about the slender waist. "Tell me of your journey."

Settling comfortably against Severus' chest, Harry pulled his lover's arms tight around him. At first Severus didn't think he was going to answer him until he began, "Hagrid found me and nursed me back to health, but he never recognized me. Months later, I left and made my way to Diagon Alley, hoping to reach London for your trial. But I got there too late; you'd already been sentenced by the time I arrived. The papers never did say where you'd been sent, so I hung around the alleys, thinking I could catch a bit of news."

He wanted to ask him why he'd not sought out the Weasleys, but given their attitude the last time Harry had seen them, when he'd told them of _their_ relationship... Well, perhaps not.

"Ollivander caught me raiding his dustbin and took me in; he fed me and let me sleep in an old wooden box in his kitchen by the stove. Strange though, he knew who I was; he always called me Harry but never changed me back."

"I assume you couldn't do so yourself?"

"Not without help. As a cat, it really tired me to use magic, so I had to limit myself to small things. I'm sorry it took me so long to get everything ready for you, but without wand or voice..." Harry shifted against him. "I still don't understand why he didn't end the spell himself."

Given Harry's injuries, his inherent insecurities, and the Wizarding world's tolerance, Severus had a good idea why Ollivander had gone the route he had. However... "So instead Ollivander sent you with supplies to make _me_ a wand?"

Harry nodded. "He's an odd duck and kept mumbling about how 'the wand always knows'... he was very unhappy with what happened to you. About three months ago, he assembled and shrank your gifts and, after giving me clear instructions, he hung the lot around my neck with the ribbon and told me where to find you. He took me as far as the outskirts of London; I arrived in the village the day before you found me in the woodpile."

"Ah, so _you_ were the thief of herring."

Harry chuckled. "You were there?" He shook his head. "Nasty old man. Almost broke my tail with that broom of his."

Three months it had taken Harry to travel from London to this backwater, highland village. Thirty months of... "How was it as a cat?"

Harry relaxed a bit and sighed. "It was all right. Bit lonely, though. As a wild cat, folks gave me a wide berth." He sniffed. "Except you. You're the only one who got close..." Harry laid his head back on his shoulder, studying his face. "You were the only one who touched me..." Harry's eyes begged him. "It's been far too long..." he choked. "I missed..." Harry's silent tears mixed with the bathwater.

Severus wrapped an arm across Harry's chest, his other hand threading through the wet hair to bring their mouths together with the unspoken promise that he would never stop touching him, would never stop loving him, would never let him go, a promise Harry accepted and reciprocated with ardour.

When they left the bath, he deftly steered Harry away from the fogged mirror over the sink, thankfully the only one in the cottage, deciding he would deal with his traumas one at a time. Once in his bedchamber, he moved to his dresser and rummaged around the top drawer, the familiar feel of Harry's eyes watching him hot on his back. Turning around to face him, he held up a pair of nightshirts and handed him one.

"Are you hungry?" When Harry raised his brows, his eyes glinting, Severus rolled his own. "Idiot. As in food. It's past dinner."

"Famished," he replied with a wicked chuckle, pulling the nightshirt on before dropping the towel around his waist.

Transfiguring his cloak into a second chair, Severus served them tea with thick slices of bread and butter. "Sorry. Need to go shopping tomorrow," he mumbled around a mouth half full.

Harry bit into it and moaned. "Oh no, this is wonderful. Warm, fresh bread. Merlin, I missed it; you drove me mad every time you brought a loaf home. And tea," he said, relishing a sweetened sip. "Milk is fine, but..." He grinned. "I'm so desperate for human food, I think I can tolerate even your cooking for a while."

Raising a brow, Severus intoned haughtily, "Complaints about the service--"

"Yeah, yeah, I know where to leave them. You should be thankful you won't have to clean it anymore."

"Especially after mouse days." Severus wrinkled his nose. "And we won't discuss your furr-balls."

"Which ones?"

Severus blinked, then chuckled. "The ones you expectorated on the kitchen floor. The ones I stepped in."

Harry grimaced. "Oh, sorry. Grooming does that, you know."

"Well, the oil I added to your food fixed that inconvenience."

"And a culinary delight it was, too." Harry laughed and they finished their simple repast quickly, Harry making Severus sit back while he cleaned their dishes.

As they entered the sitting room, Severus shook his head with regret. "I admit I'll miss your contortions." Suddenly, he had to know. "Tell me, was it _really_ comfortable the way you slept?"

Grinning, Harry replied, "While there were days I would have killed for even one hand, the cat's body was simply amazing. It was so strong and fast. And limber. My favourite was when I'd lay on my back next to you, dangling my head over the front. You'd always sink your fingers in my fur, and though it tickled a bit, I could almost imagine I wasn't a cat and you were..." He took Severus' hand and laid it flat on his stomach. "And you were petting my stomach like you used to before you fell asleep." He looked away, "Severus, I..." His voice trailed off, his uncertainty as plain as if he'd expressed it aloud. "I know what the curse did to me, and I--"

"And I don't care," Severus whispered, the hand on Harry's stomach sliding to encompass his waist. Standing close he whispered, "I'm not going anywhere." He pulled him close. "Come to bed with me?"

"Always."

In the darkened chamber, Harry hesitantly pulled the nightshirt over his head and climbed into the high bed, holding the covers up so Severus could join him. Soon the years apart were bridged by lips and tongues dancing a reunion while hands and limbs reacquainted themselves with the closeness of sliding skin. Aching with a need greater than flesh, two hearts, numbed by survival and a loss of more than just magic, joined in joyous communion.

"Want you."

As dextrous fingers found and stretched him, Harry mewled, the vibrations tickling Severus' tongue as it traced the 'v' at the base of his throat. He kissed away the soft growls and hisses of painful pleasure voiced as he inched into his lover, the heat building slowly between them. Not an inferno for them this time, but more the soft sparks of a banked fire primed to ignite into life-giving heat and comfort. The warmth seeping into their souls had nothing to do with frenzied desire. No, this warmth, born in perseverance and sacrifice, redefined them, once again making them one in more than just body.

"Need you."

Strong hands gripped his arms, the nails digging crescents into his skin as the beloved body below used him for leverage. They quickly found the ancient rhythms, giving and taking, bestowing and receiving. Fire danced along his skin as passion's demands overrode thought and together they tipped into delight, their cries of mutual pleasure echoing quietly across the small room. Sated, Severus leant his forehead on the pillow, trying to catch his breath while hands tenderly caressed his back and arms, smoothing the exertion from his flesh.

"Love you."

He winced at Harry's growl as his body left that of his lover's. He hushed the soft sound of protest as he rolled out of the bed, leaving an ardent promise of his return to willing lips, before making his shivering way to the bathroom.

The flannel was as warm and intimate as the chuckle heard when Harry reminded him, "You could have used magic, you know."

"Maybe next time," he murmured, marvelling at how long the body next to him could lithely stretch before curling around him, their legs and arms tangling.

Soft breath wafted across his chest as Harry's fingers carded through the soft, thick hair there. Severus smiled; some things never changed and Harry playing with his chest hair meant he had something on his mind. And he thought he knew what it was since it weighed heavily in his own thoughts as well.

"I won't miss this cottage."

The soft sigh told him his comment had hit the mark. "Rotten village, too."

He shivered as Harry's hand trailed to his waist. "Someplace warm."

Harry shifted. "Mmm-hmm. Sun spots for two."

"Hmm. France?"

Messy hair tickled his chin as Harry shook his head. "Mm-mm... warmer... wi' catnip."

Severus chuckled, laying his cheek on top of Harry's head, his hand absently caressing the warm belly. "Catnip?"

"Yes," came the slurred, sleepy reply. "Lovely stuff." The hand on his waist tightened. "Together?"

Severus kissed Harry's forehead and contemplated his future. Their future.

"Always, love."

FINIS


End file.
